


Far From Home

by asilentherald



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Modern Era, Post-Finale, waiting for Arthur's return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asilentherald/pseuds/asilentherald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is a sort of groundskeeper in modern times for Avalon. He waits for Arthur's return, and dreams of it every night. But it's only ever a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From Home

Merlin returns to his piss poor excuse of a house—it’s more of a shack, really, with its’ thin walls and thin roof and the two mice who occasionally keep him company—and throws his hat on the ground. It slides into the leg of the table in the kitchen, which is the same room as the living room. He starts the fire in the fireplace with a glance before setting his bags down and easing out of his coat. His bones ache and do not wish to twist around the thousand-year-old joints, but Merlin forces them anyway. He relishes the feeling, even.

 

Merlin sheds his age and settles into familiar skin. Out of habit, he glances at his reflection in the window, and sees the same face that witnessed the death of Arthur Pendragon. He breathes deeply and walks away from the window. Merlin deposits his wet clothes by the fire. He extracts the bottle he picked up in town and sets it on the kitchen counter. Merlin stuffs a slice of bread between his teeth as he walks to his bedroom, shedding the rest of his clothing along the way. The bed is unmade, but he hasn’t bothered to really make a bed properly in a long time. The indents on the pillows remain untouched.

 

The shower is mercifully hot. Merlin savors the way it hits his skin like little shards of metal. The sensation is painful, but it’s better than no sensation at all. Usually, on bad days like this, Merlin takes advantage of the excellent luck he had in procuring the job of groundskeeper for Avalon, or whatever they call it nowadays. It’s always going to be Avalon to him. On bad days, Merlin goes out in the middle of the night and sits on the shore. He talks to the water, always hoping that the dead can listen. He unburdens himself, he rambles, he goes on and on and on, exactly as he would have done if Arthur were alive. So often it was only to go on about the new technology, or the latest international conflict, or— _gods, Arthur, they’ve put men on the moon! Can you believe it?_ even though that was a while ago now, but it’ll always be one of Merlin’s favorite conversations—sometimes just about how his favorite footie team won a tough match.

 

He always ends saying it’s no fun if Arthur’s not going to tell him to shut up, since he could go on talking for decades. That’s when reality kicks back in and Merlin forces himself to leave the shores. He swears he’ll stay away for a while, but he’s always back within a couple of days. He can’t stay away. Even when he didn’t live so close, he always returned to Avalon, if only to feel close to Arthur. Then he feels less like he failed in attempting to thwart the prophecy. Then, Merlin feels less like ending it all and joining Arthur of his own volition; being near Avalon is a reminder that he must wait, that Arthur will need him when he returns, and that he cannot give up. He stays for Arthur. He fights on for Arthur.

 

Merlin wants nothing more than to go out to the shores of Avalon, but the torrential rain isn’t all that welcoming, and the last thing he needs is Arthur making fun of him for catching a cold. But he _does_ want to talk to him and tell him about the last couple of days. Merlin ducks out of the shower after he realizes he finished actively washing fifteen minutes ago. He throws on an old shirt and a pair of flannel pants and pads into the living room. The air is pleasant and warm. Merlin takes a bite out of a half-finished scone and sits down with his bottle in the chair next to the fire. _The Call of Cthulu and Other Works_ is stuck between the cushions.

 

“Not sure how long I can keep this up, Arthur,” he murmurs to the fire. “Heritage knows me as the old man, and they know he’s got a grandson who’s busy a lot of the time.”

 

Merlin knows that the old man will need to die, and that the grandson, who’ll just finish school, will have to take over. He’ll age naturally, and by the time he’s an old man, all the people who knew his grandfather will be dead. People who’ve met both the kid and the old man go on about the resemblance, but Merlin’s done this enough times before to know how to do it right. He’s not an idiot. They never know the difference, or lack of.

 

“Can’t you just get your arse up and out of there already?”

 

He always makes this sort of complaint.

 

“You know better than anyone, I’ll wait another thousand years if I have to, but I’ll tell you, it’s getting a little dull,” Merlin adds in a hushed whisper. “I’m old, Arthur. I can feel it, even like this. I’m alone. You know how many times I’ve had to watch everyone I know die. It started before you, but it’s never going to end, not at this rate.”

 

Merlin’s learned not to make too many friends. He did return to Camelot, rather inconspicuously, to confirm for the Queen and Gaius that the Once and Future King was dead, that he couldn’t save him. When he saw Gwaine’s body, still tense and forever broken by Morgana’s hand, he knew he couldn’t remain there. Merlin left before the public declaration. He did not stray far from Camelot at first. Gaius and Gwen still found him and sought for his counsel. Gwen decided to lift the ban without Merlin’s persuasion, but she still asked for his thoughts on her plans. He was the royal advisor from afar. Occasionally, Merlin stayed in Camelot for a couple of days. After one longer stint when he accidentally found himself in the former King’s chambers, Merlin left. He never returned, not in the lifetime of anyone he knew.

 

Merlin takes a long drink from the bottle. The alcohol burns the back of the throat, but he welcomes the burn. It’s sensation, after all.

 

“Clotpole,” he shoots. The fire crackles, as though it’s amused. “When you get up here, we’re having a talk about how you don’t know how to pull your weight in long-distance relationships.”

 

Merlin smiles, in spite of himself.

 

“Anyway, I’ve told you a million times, but it’s getting dull. Literature’s not what it used to be. They’re all pissing themselves over this E.L. James, but it’s not that good. I’ve read better on the internet. People are getting stupider by the day, I’m telling you. Though I met this bloke in the pub this afternoon. I was the old man, but he seemed pretty keen on the picture I had of the kid. I told him I’d meet him there tomorrow night. God, Arthur, the boy was gorgeous, but… I’m not really sure what I want. A shag would be great, yeah? Yeah. Who knows?”

 

He pauses.

 

“I miss you, like a limb I lost forever ago. Every damn day, it gets worse. Nothing helps. Magic is useless. I did go to a physician again the other day, but I can’t afford any of the meds he wanted me to take. Can’t really be bothered either. We talked, though. You’re an old friend from the military. He didn’t really think I was the fighting type,” he adds with a laugh. “Well, we know I’m not. But you’re still my best friend, and I told him we were there together, and you went MIA. I didn’t mention you died in my arms. I didn’t think it right to put that burden on him during our first meeting. Maybe some other time.

 

“Y’know, even if you do come back, what the hell would that mean? Albion would be in the shitter, for one thing. I’m surprised you didn’t turn up during the World Wars. Those were pretty bad. I guess the… fabled time of need… will be greater than it was then. Gods. I know you’ll return for Albion, but I wish you’d return for me. I’m all alone, Arthur. I’ve managed, but I need you at my side, just like you needed me. I’m here with you, but you’re—you’re a memory, a promise, a ghost—you might never come, not for me.”

 

He stops.

 

“I know. I serve you; not the other way around. Yeah. Sometimes it’s hard to remember without you bossing me around.”

 

Merlin drinks from the bottle for a while. The alcohol’s half gone when he puts the bottle on the hearth. It settles unevenly in his mostly-empty stomach. He looks at the clock. It’s late now, but he doesn’t want to sleep. He hasn’t wanted to sleep since the first few weeks after he moved into the groundskeeper’s house. It started gently, and he paid no attention to it, but then they came upon him like a plague. He would wake in the night drenched in icy sweat, panting as though he’d run miles and miles, and reality would strangle him with it’s equally-icy grip. The dreams became more and more realistic every night. Merlin’s not sure what to make of it, since he’s had the occasional strange dream over the centuries, but it’s never been quite like this. He reminds himself of Morgana in his early years in Camelot.

 

He’s had plenty of time to deal with the dreams, but nothing that worked in the past helps. Usually, he just needs to de-stress and distract himself for a while. A good shag always does the trick. Merlin’s had plenty of time to learn what he likes with men and women alike, but since maybe the seventeenth or eighteenth century, he’s stuck mostly to men, and they’re almost always blond-haired with almond-shaped blue eyes and soft, pouty lips, and a tendency to be an utter prat.

 

He drinks again, resolving to try the boy at the pub tomorrow.

 

Merlin curls into the chair and reads _The Call of Cthulu_ for the fifty-second time. He does not realize when he falls asleep.

* * *

 

At the beginning, he dreamt of the Arthur’s Camelot, and the life of the kingdom the King never got to see. Sometimes he dreamt of the child Gwen bore precisely nine months after the death of her husband. He had met the child on a few occasions, apart from being present at the birth to aid Gaius. Merlin left Camelot behind before the child reached his seventh year, around when the boy started asking if Merlin knew the mysterious, unnamed warlock who protected his incredibly brave father to the end of his days. His blue eyes were the same as Arthur’s.

 

Merlin’s voluntary insomnia kicked in when the dreams turned into nightmares. He saw histories could have come to pass (but never did, in the end), ones that made him wake with sickness in his stomach, mostly because he’d had the occasional dream like this in the past thousand years, and they’d always sent him into a panic that was only quelled after a full generation. He endured the nightly horrors for almost a year before sitting down at the lake and confessing to Arthur.

 

_“Perhaps it’s part of the punishment. The wait’s bad enough, but maybe it’s not sufficient.”_

 

After that day, the nightmares about the future halted. He had returned to the house in the dead of night. When he slept, he did not dream. But the next night, he dreamt of Arthur’s return. Every night it was a little different, but some things were always the same: at three in the morning, Merlin wakes from wherever he fell asleep to someone pounding on his door. Arthur is there. They never talk much, but he forgives Merlin for not being able to save him, and hits him over the head for throwing himself in the depths of the lake one too many times in a futile attempt at godsknowwhat. They embrace. Merlin begins to teach him the ways of modernity. Arthur is grateful, for everything, especially for Merlin.

 

But he always utters the same three words that shatter the dream, usually in a final thankful embrace.

 

Lately, the dreams have been a little different, in that Arthur displays his affections a little more _openly_ than in the past. Merlin has no problem with this—and, clearly, neither do the cruel beings orchestrating his nightmares, for he always finds himself in the loving arms of Arthur Pendragon, only to always be torn away from them, every shard of hope totally stripped from his form by the time he wakes. Usually, Merlin feels better once he talks to Arthur at the shore, but he’s distantly aware that his talks must only amplify the pain the nightmares cause him. It’s worth it for the brief sensation of alleviation.

* * *

 

Around three in the morning, Merlin wakes to a harsh pounding on the door. He kicks the bottle as he jerks awake, spilling its contents on the hearth.

 

“Fuck—”

 

Merlin throws a towel on the bottle and runs to the door. He stops. _Who the bloody hell is calling at this hour?_

 

Merlin opens the door cautiously. The man is in the shadows, and he is clearly drenched from head to foot. But then the light catches the long metal covering on his body, and then the red cape. Merlin throws the door open. He feels the blood draw from his face as his heart starts to pound.

 

“Come in. S-step into the light,” he says. Spots dances before his eyes; he clings to the door for support. Merlin almost has to slap himself to keep himself from fainting. The man steps forward.

 

He is exactly the same. Same blond hair, same lips, same gloved hands resting on the hilt of Excalibur. They are the same blue eyes that don’t immediately register the man who stood before him. Then, a moment later, it seems to click, for Arthur Pendragon sweeps forward and pulls Merlin into a tight embrace. He is cold as ice, Merlin realized. Arthur’s grip slackens and his legs give way.

 

“Whoa, there,” Merlin says softly, steadying Arthur. He leads him to the chair by the fire and sets it at full blaze again before ducking away to shut the door. He turns around and stares at the half-conscious former King. Merlin pinches his arm. _No. I’m awake. This is really happening._

 

He strides to Arthur and kneels at his side.

 

“Arthur,” he says, surprised at how calm he sounded. “Arthur, are you okay?”

 

Arthur’s hand finds Merlin’s and holds it lightly. Merlin squeezes back. A smile plays on the King’s lips.

 

“I am now. Can—can you get me out of this bloody chainmail? I don’t think I can—,” he says, his voice coming out breathy. Merlin’s heart gives a panicked flutter, for the weakness in his voice reminds him so much of the way Arthur had sounded during his final moments.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Just like old times,” Arthur says, still smiling. Merlin helps Arthur to his feet and starts disrobing him. He tosses the belt aside as Arthur removes his gloves. He stretches his fingers as Merlin gathers the ends of the chainmail and starts pulling it up his torso. The hole where Mordred’s blade pierced him is gone. His chest tightens, though he can’t tell if it is out of relief or due to thousand-year-old-post-traumatic-stress.

 

“Arthur, how are you—?”

 

“Later, Merlin. I just… I need to breathe right now,” he says as Merlin eases the chainmail over Arthur’s head.

 

“D’you want some clothes? Normal ones?”

 

“What’s wrong with these?”

 

“You’ve been wearing them for a thousand years, give or take.”

 

“Ah. Yes. Sure, if you have anything.”

 

Merlin retreats into his bedroom, extracting a pair of flannel pants and an old t-shirt. He returns to find Arthur leaning against the mantle, looking curiously at the photographs Merlin placed there.

 

He holds out the clothes.

 

“They might be a bit tight.”

 

“Do you have… a basin?”

 

“For washing? I’ve got a shower,” Merlin says. He almost laughs. “Come on. I’ll show you how it works. Oh, don’t look so scared, you girl.”

 

Merlin takes Arthur by the wrist and drags him through to the bathroom at the back of his bedroom. Arthur slows, staring at everything around him. By the time Merlin gets him in the bathroom, Arthur is shaking.

 

“What’s wrong?” Merlin asks, instantly frowning and tightening his grip on Arthur. The muscles around Arthur’s wrist relax as he placed his other hand on Merlin’s.

 

“Nothing. It’s all very different,” he mutters. “Not quite what I imagined.”

 

“We’ll talk later. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Merlin says briskly. He shows Arthur how the tap and the shower worked, which knobs to turn to get hot water, and where to find the soap and towels. He has questions— _it comes out like rain, from_ that _thing?_ —that make Merlin smile and his heart swell ten times too large. Merlin makes to leave when Arthur stops him.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Can you stay? Please.”

 

One look at Arthur and Merlin finds himself agreeing. He sits on the closed toilet seat and looks away while Arthur disrobes completely. He disappears behind the shower curtain and fumbles with the knobs for several minutes before almost scalding himself and subsequently calling for Merlin’s help.

 

Twenty minutes later, Arthur is clean and dressed, marveling at the soft pants and shirt. They are a tad too tight, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind—and Merlin finds he doesn’t mind either. Merlin finds himself drinking in the former king’s body, tracing the lines of muscle and softness from head to toe while Arthur was turns away staring at the blank television set.

 

Merlin feels the blush rise in his face as he pulls Arthur away.

 

“I can explain all this later,” he says. Arthur sits down on the bed beside him, watching him with a feeling that he’s never seen on Arthur’s face—the man hangs on his every word, damn it. Arthur stares at him unabashedly. Merlin shifts slightly, but Arthur only closes the gap between them.

 

“I still can’t believe this is real,” Arthur finally says.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s—it’s the real deal, right? This is it? Albion’s time of need?” Merlin inquires. Arthur looks away and nods.

 

“It’s coming, I was told.”

 

Merlin wants so badly to ask what it had been like. Hell, he has a million questions, but they all lead to one simple question.

 

“Do you forgive me?” Merlin blurts. Arthur’s gaze sharpens. Merlin starts to break. He knows it will be in his voice, at least. “For not saving you. Can you forgive me, Arthur?”

 

“Merlin—”

 

Arthur pulls Merlin closer, running his hand in soothing circles on Merlin’s back as Merlin finally, after a thousand years, drops all pretenses of strength. His hand finds Arthur’s face. He runs his thumb over his cheekbone before resting his hand at the base of Arthur’s neck. He clings to his friend there and lets out a great sob. Arthur only holds him more tightly.

 

“I heard you, every day, Merlin,” he says softly, his lips brushing Merlin’s ears. “I talked back, you know. I know you never heard me. I never understood why you kept coming back there.”

 

“I needed to be near you. I needed to be close—”

 

“Merlin… Merlin. They sent me back because of you.”

 

Merlin releases Arthur and sat up, facing his friend.

 

“Albion’s time of need is close, yes, but they saw that your need was greater,” Arthur says. He brings Merlin close to him again, running his hands all over his body, as though to ascertain still that he is real. “You’d’ve been no use to anyone if you ended up a sniveling, depressed mess, _Mer_ lin.”

 

Merlin smiles at that.

 

“I convinced them to let me go early. My true time was near, no matter what.”

 

“You convinced them?” Merlin asks. “You’re serious?”

 

“Dead serious,” he says with a toothy grin. “I convinced them, and here I am.”

 

“You’re here for me.”

 

“Yes, Merlin, it’s not that hard to understand,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

 

“I think it is. Just—give me a minute,” Merlin says, pulling out of Arthur’s arms, which fall on the bed without losing Merlin’s shape. Merlin spins around. “Why, Arthur?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“For me—I can’t—Arthur, you’re defying a prophecy by being here, if it’s really not your time,” Merlin says, a warning tone edging into his voice. “I can’t really believe they’d let you go to keep me company.”

 

“Well, they did, you ungrateful clotpole,” Arthur spits.

 

“I still—why would it matter, if it was so close?” Merlin asks, softening again. “I was going to be here waiting for you, no matter. Arthur I was going to wait until the end of time for you.”

 

“Can’t you just be happy I’m here?”

 

“Gods, I am happy. You have—you’ve got no clue how happy I am,” Merlin says with a weak laugh.

 

“Good,” Arthur says. “I’m here. That’s all that matters. Understood?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat, would you, Merlin?”

 

“You realize I’m not your servant anymore, Arthur,” Merlin says pointedly. Arthur rolls his eyes. Merlin makes a beeline for the kitchen and looks in the fridge. He takes the leftover pizza and sticks it in the microwave before returning to Arthur, who looks more befuddled than ever. “It’s a microwave. It heats things up.”

 

“I know. You told me about it. You told me about everything,” he says.

 

“You remember all that?”

 

“I do. I waited every day for you to show up and start prattling on about some book or war or some new kind of food. It was—nice.”

 

“You waited… for me?” Merlin repeats in disbelief.

 

“Merlin, damn it—I need you. You need me. They let me back early because they know this, and I wanted more time with you, in case our fates lead to death again,” Arthur says. His eyes are wide and shining, a feverish redness settling high in face. He is on his feet and advancing on Merlin. “I needed to be with you, after all this time—after hearing you earlier, I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

 

“What, me talking and you not being able to tell me to shut up?” Merlin asks. Arthur glares.

 

“ _No_ ,” he says emphatically, “I couldn’t stand seeing you this way. I didn’t want you to feel that you were alone. Not anymore.”

 

Merlin hears his own words thrown back at him like an echo from a long-past dream. He looks down and away.

 

“Well, Arthur, I didn’t know you cared.”

 

“Of _course_ I care, you imbecile.”

 

Arthur grabs Merlin’s face, his grip strangely gentle. His eyes searched Merlin’s for a brief moment. Merlin held his breath, his jeans suddenly feeling far too tight, his skin far too hot. Arthur seems to make up his mind. He presses forward and kisses him. Gods, Arthur kisses Merlin like the sun might never rise. Their teeth clash while Arthur threads his fingers through Merlin’s hair. Merlin at first is uncertain how to respond, but as soon as Arthur’s tongue licked his lips, and when Arthur pressed his leg between Merlin’s right into his raging erection, Merlin’s thoughts go blank after a simple _fuck it_. He kisses him back. He pulls Arthur in by the waist and runs his hands under the back of his shirt, feeling at the muscles on his lower back.

 

Merlin stops short and pushes Arthur away.

 

“What—what is this, Arthur?” he demands shakily. “You were married to Gwen. You loved her more than anything, and then—you’re doing this, not an hour back with the living?”

 

“Merlin—”

 

“I’m not—I get it. Maybe you’re a little _tense_ or _frustrated_ after so many damn years, but I’m not your servant anymore, and I’m not going to be your _icamebacktolife-shag_ , just because you know I’m into blokes.”

 

Arthur shrinks away.

 

“It’s not like that, Merlin. I swear,” he says. “I loved Gwen more than anything and anyone, yes. I never saw her again, not even in death. I loved her, and I mourned her. But you’re the only person who spoke to me after I died. You’re the only person who was always at my side. Merlin, you loved me, too. And—and if I didn’t love you then, I surely do now. I’ve had a thousand years to be certain of this, Merlin, so… do what you will.”

 

Merlin gawps at Arthur, who waits with watery puppy-dog eyes.

 

“Say something!” he finally exclaims.

 

Merlin rushes forward and kisses him. It is a relatively chaste kiss, solely a confirmation.

 

“I’ve always loved you, Arthur. Then, now, and the thousand years in between,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta give me some time to get used to this.”

 

“We have all the time in the world now. For now, just—just hold me.”

 

Merlin’s heart stops at the sound of those three words.

 

“What did you say?” he asks, taking a step back.

 

Everything around him blacks out.

* * *

 

Merlin wakes sprawled on the chair by the fireplace. Light streams in between the blinds on the window over the kitchen sink. It’s close to noon. Merlin’s whole body aches. His shirt is sticky with sweat. He’s shivering by the time he reaches the bathroom and turns the hot water on in the shower. When he emerges, he does not feel much better. He never does. Mornings are the worst, in his opinion.

 

He used to feel the pain of waking from _the torture_ much more fully, but he’s become numb. The tears don’t flow so often, but today they do. This nightmare was the worst one yet. Arthur was as good as there. Merlin can still smell him on his clothes. It was the most realistic one to date, and had it not been for Arthur arriving early for Merlin’s sake, it would have been almost plausible.

 

_He’d never be able to return like that. No._

 

But that _was_ the first time when it was explicitly stated: Albion’s time of need is very close. Merlin dresses. He digs out the old red neckerchief and ties it around his neck. It’s not much, but it’s enough of the past to make him feel close to Arthur when he’s not in his piss poor excuse of a house.

 

_It’s not that bad_ , he thinks. _But it won’t be home ‘til Arthur’s here with me._

 

Merlin leaves for town, thinking of the library and the park and the pub for later. It’s all to kill time. The end of his waiting is near. Merlin can feel it, and sensation is often hard to come by for him in this strange new world.

 

_Sod it. The shag might not even be worth it, not if Arthur’s coming. He’s coming. I know it._


End file.
